


The Names of Things

by helico_pter



Series: Singer of Snow [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29780820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helico_pter/pseuds/helico_pter
Summary: Some moments in the life of Otabek and Yuri, post-Singer of Snow.
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Series: Singer of Snow [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188872
Comments: 12
Kudos: 40





	The Names of Things

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very angry at all the things I have been trying to write in the last two months. So, instead, I decided to write this nonsense. Takes place between the post-epilogue and the post-post-epilogue of Singer of Snow, about a month after the wedding.
> 
> (Happy Birthday, Yuri!)

When the sound of their breathing evens out, the noise from the outside becomes clearer. The wind doesn’t quite howl, but the sound it makes isn’t friendly. Yuri’s eyes gleam in the faint light of the banked fire.

“Winter is my favourite,” he whispers. “There are dark, pointy trees with sharp leaves,” Yuri murmurs. “They smell good. They smell sweet. They make winter smell sweet.”

“Sharp leaves?” Otabek’s mind goes to grasses. Some of them have serrated edges, but even the ones without such aren’t called _blades_ of grass without reason.

“They are thin, like... needles,” Yuri says after some consideration.

“Like thorns?” Otabek peers curiously up at Yuri, having been resting his head on Yuri’s chest. He knows thorny bushes and vines and how they cut and catch.

“No, not-” Yuri takes a breath. “We cut branches of them and make decorations, or place them in front of the door on the ground. They are good for taking snow off shoes. They have sticky blood that freezes and makes sound when it gets very cold.”

Otabek lifts his head, leaning his chin on his hand. They’re both quiet as the structure of the yurt around them creaks and settles. “I hope we can get the door open in the morning,” he whispers.

“It is much snow,” Yuri agrees quietly. Beyond the creaking of the yurt is the sound of the gale, but inside the loudest noise is the occasional snap of the fire in the hearth. The storm has lasted almost a full day, borne on a bitterly cold air current from the steppe to the north.

Otabek reaches up to smooth away the worried frown on Yuri’s forehead with his thumb. “Does it snow a lot up in the north?”

“Sometimes,” Yuri replies. “But my home is- was made of stone. It had many rooms on top of each other. Snow would not break it.”

Otabek’s imagination is stretched to the extreme, first by the needle trees and now the idea of many yurts on top of each other, even though he knows it’s not what Yuri is describing. It’s the first thing that comes to his mind.

“I had a room that was for me only,” Yuri continues, shifting so he can tuck his head under Otabek’s chin, pressing his face into Otabek’s bare chest. The cold comes through the walls of the yurt despite the three layers of felt and hide, and Otabek is starting to feel like he should put his clothes back on now that the heat or their joining is beginning to die down.

“Wasn’t that lonely?” Otabek asks, pulling Yuri into his embrace.

Yuri’s reply is a faint no-noise. He’s warm to hold. Another creak of the yurt’s frame makes Yuri stiffen in alarm, and Otabek soothes him by stroking his back. The snowfall is exceptionally heavy, which worries him too, but for a different reason. He also feels responsible. Yuri hadn’t been singing, but he’d certainly been vocalising earlier. No matter how many times he’s reassured of Yuri’s human-ness, he can’t shake the image and memory of him singing to the echo until snow began to fall.

“My favourite season is the spring,” Otabek says in the dark, lips touching Yuri’s hair. “You haven’t seen it.”

“I have seen spring. I was _born_ in spring,” Yuri argues.

_That makes sense._ Otabek rubs his nose into Yuri’s skin. “You haven’t seen the steppe in the spring. Overnight, everything changes. The ground which has looked dead and which has been frozen, it becomes alive. Plants bloom. White, yellow, and purple flowers appear. The wind changes. It’s warm. It smells of fresh grass.”

“Winter can be warm too,” Yuri says and snuggles deeper into Otabek’s arms. He rubs one of Otabek’s feet between his.

“It can.” Otabek spreads his fingers as wide as they can go, covering as much of Yuri’s chest as he can. His other arm is being used as a pillow. “But spring is more than the blooming steppe.” He closes his eyes and pictures the sky and the land under it. The sway of riding a horse towards the horizon. “It’s... movement. It’s leaving.”

Yuri makes a soft yes-noise.

“But not leaving home,” Otabek murmurs. “It’s leaving to _go_ home. I can’t wait to go with you.”

“Spring will come. We will go,” Yuri promises, voice muffled by the fleece. “I should remove hair.”

Otabek surprises them both by laughing out loud at the change of topic, although he curbs the noise as quickly as he can. “What hair?” he asks, lifting the fleece to peer under it at Yuri’s pale body. “You’re hairless like a baby rabbit.”

“What rabbit!” Yuri gasps in outrage, pushing his hands against Otabek’s chest. “I mean my head hair. I should have it like you. After spring is summer. Summer is not warm. Summer is _hot_.”

“Oh.” Otabek hides his smile into the aforementioned hair. “If you want, then yes. Mom will shear it for you.”

“Not you?”

“I don’t think I’ll have the time.” Yuri’s puzzlement is palpable in the bunched-up eyebrows and questioning mouth. “As soon as the storm is over, I have to return to the pastures,” Otabek explains.

“I will also,” Yuri adds immediately.

“No, not this time.” Otabek loosens his hold on Yuri in anticipation of the pale head popping up in inquiry again. “It’s too dangerous.”

“But not too dangerous for _you_?” Yuri argues, raising his voice. “I want to come. I want to learn.”

Otabek waits until Yuri settles again, torn between a pout and worry, face wrinkling in various directions as he chews on the matter. “You can’t,” Otabek whispers. “This isn’t the time for learning, Yura. This is the time to protect the herd, and because there’s no one else to look after your horses, I must go. It’s my _duty_ to you as your husband.”

“Hu- But-” Yuri’s bewilderment is a delight to watch, and Otabek is in a position where he doesn’t have to hold back from nuzzling into Yuri’s cheek and pulling the wriggling limbs against his. “I’m also the husband,” Yuri finally mutters.

“This isn’t about that,” Otabek points out, causing more wriggles until he catches Yuri’s legs between his. “You don’t know your way around the herd yet and you’d leave your mother alone here if you came with me.”

“Then take мама as well,” Yuri argues.

“No,” Otabek says. “There’s too much snow for her wagon to get through, and I think she’d find the yurts we have over there lacking in comfort and privacy. It’s not a place for women.” He strokes Yuri’s hair and back to keep him calm, as he would a horse. “When spring comes, we’ll all go.”

“You are thinking of me as a child.” Yuri pushes his hand away.

Otabek pulls the squirming Yuri as close as he possibly can, trapping him between his legs. “I don’t think of you that way at all.”

“You treat me as one,” Yuri argues. “I can help.”

“Then stay and help here.” Otabek pushes the free-flowing pale hair back from Yuri’s face, stroking his cheek with his thumb. “Please, Yura. I could not put you at risk. Not many men will be staying behind, so you’ll be needed here.”

“Бека.” Yuri’s frustration comes through in his voice, as well as the hands that he uses to smack Otabek on the chest. It stings, but Otabek wouldn’t restrict his ability to express himself just the same as he wouldn’t restrict an agitated horse. He only cups the side of Yuri’s face and rubs the outer edge of his ear.

“You can take risk, but I cannot?” Yuri places his grievance and then starts as one of the yurt’s roof supports makes a cracking noise above them. Otabek squeezes him harder for a second.

“Light.” Otabek takes Yuri’s hand and places it on the unlit candle on the edge of the bed platform. While Yuri slips out to light the candle at the hearth, Otabek stands up on the bed and feels the curved ceiling with his hands in an effort to locate the possible break. When Yuri comes up with the candle, he surveys the felt covering with his eyes as well but finds nothing.

There are two layers of supports and three layers of coverings, with the two outer ones being made of leather to trap moisture so it doesn’t condense on the inside and wet the felt or cause moulding. The ceiling doesn’t sag anywhere, and none of the inner supports are broken as far as Otabek can see. He blows out the candle in Yuri’s hands and brings them both back down into the furs, which have cooled down even with such a short absence of their body heat. They’re both shivering.

“Even if one part fails, the other parts will hold it together,” Otabek murmurs, folding Yuri back in their warm cocoon. “Don’t be afraid,” he adds, wondering if part of Yuri’s trembling is out of fright that the yurt will collapse on them.

“I am _not afraid_ ,” Yuri mutters, but it’s in the tone of his voice and in the still face he presents to Otabek, who keeps them to himself like all the precious things Yuri shows him. Even so, Yuri readily cuddles up to him, and the reason doesn’t matter. Otabek holds himself awake and Yuri close until Yuri is warm and asleep. Only then does he give himself permission to fall asleep as well.

~

There’s no sound of children in the morning. There’s no sound of wind, only occasional crackles and creaks and the shuffle of Eyinzhu’s feet around the hearth. The striker hits the flint, and the spark pops. The small bellows squeak as Eyinzhu breathes life into the newborn fire. A warm glow breaks through the small gaps in the interior walls. In that light, Otabek caresses Yuri’s form, finding him still asleep.

When at rest, Yuri’s face retains some of the earlier sweet roundness. The thread of his hair, his brows, his lashes is very delicate, like spun from the thinnest, most translucent gold silk. The faint scent of spring and grass seems to cling to his hair the most. Otabek touches his fingertip to Yuri’s brow, sliding it along the bridge of his nose and down over his lips. Yuri sighs, and Otabek’s loins respond by tightening with desire.

If the children were playing, if there was no silence, he could stay. He could stay and do what he’s doing anyway. He could keep his hands in the secret, warm space between them under the fragrant furs and caress Yuri’s sleek beauty to his heart’s content. But it’s too quiet outside. The yurt is bearing too much weight with the snow. The horses might need to be brought to a different wintering pasture.

The warmth and closeness of their bodies is an inevitable loss when Otabek slips out of the bed to relieve himself and get dressed. The water bubbles in the kettle as he pushes the drape aside and meets his mother by the hearth.

“We’re buried,” she says darkly, her face lit from below by the fire, making her seem all the more dramatic. “Look. I tried to open the smoke hole.” She gestures a to a night soil basket where she’s collected the snow, now melting.

“I’ll dig us out,” Otabek promises.

“We will dig.” Yuri’s voice is sleepy but clear enough. He’s standing in the shade of the drape, a fleece around his shoulders, which leaves his long legs and feet bare. Otabek follows them up.

“Yura,” he says.

“I will help,” Yuri insists. “Мама is also under snow.”

“Clothes,” Otabek reminds him and gets up, drawing the drape between them and his mother.

“I _know_ ,” Yuri says, dropping the fleece back on the bed. He shivers violently in the cold, grabbing his clothes quickly. Otabek does the same, piling on the layers to be able to take on the snow.

In the end, it’s easier to remove the door of the yurt rather than to try and open it properly. The snow has piled up almost as high as the doorway, but it’s easy to dig and the amount decreases the further they get away from the walls of the yurt. Soft whistles all around them let them know others are working on the same problem. And although the air is cold, inside the snow walls there’s no wind, and Otabek is soon sweating uncomfortably inside his clothes.

Beside him, Yuri is red-faced with the constant effort, but both his brow and mouth are set in a vertical line of determination while they dig towards Evgeniya’s wagon. The wagon had been moved beside Eyinzhu’s yurt after the wedding while the living arrangements are still being discussed. The simple wagon is difficult to heat in the winter, but Evegeniya had refused to move into the yurt even though there is ample space.

“Мама,” Yuri calls to his mother while they work to shift the snow. The two of them have a conversation in their tongue, from which Otabek is able to pick out the word for ‘snow’. Evgeniya doesn’t seem particularly troubled, from her tone of voice, merely inconvenienced, speaking to her being very accustomed to large amounts of snow.

_No wonder_ , Otabek thinks, pausing to take a breath and look up at the pearly grey sky from where slow snow is still falling. _She gave birth to a person who can summon snow_. The thought makes Otabek smile, finding himself ridiculous, but it makes the sight of Yuri’s back irresistible. Otabek drops his shovel and moves quietly behind Yuri, then grabs him, careful to cradle his head as he drops them both into the snowbank.

Yuri’s breath erupts out of him both in surprise and with the impact of hitting the snow, some of which lands on top of them. Otabek doesn’t give Yuri the opportunity to question the action and presses their cold faces together, nuzzling his lips against the warmth escaping from Yuri’s mouth. The moment lasts until Evgeniya calls out from her still-blocked wagon. Yuri’s cheeks are a fiery red when the climb up to their feet and slap snow off their clothes before resuming their task.

When Yuri’s mother is freed and escorted into the yurt, and Yuri is eyeing Otabek with playful cat eyes, there’s a whistle signalling a meeting.

Otabek gives Yuri a rueful push towards the yurt. “Go inside. I’ll go to the meeting. It’s probably about the horses.”

“Everything is,” Yuri says, playfulness diminishing but not disappearing entirely. He takes Evgeniya’s arm and walks her inside, while Otabek traverses the newly forged paths through the snow to the meeting spot.

The tea fire isn’t lit. It nor the seats around it are visible, and the men of the family stand around or sit on snow mounds. Altynbek rubs his chin, casting many a displeased glance up at the overcast sky.

“Well, it can’t be helped,” he says. “We have to go even if the snow doesn’t stop. We’ll have to relocate the herd and open the feed stores for both the horses and the sheep.”

There’s a murmur of general agreement from everyone. It’d been expected with such heavy snowfall. The sheep belong to Otabek’s second uncle, who stays at the winter pastures and the permanent settlement all year long. The sheep help fertilise the pastures during the summer as well as generate wool for clothing and creating the felt walls of the yurts.

“Let’s take a hand’s width to get a good breakfast and pack,” Altynbek decides, holding his hand towards the slightly brighter spot on the sky to measure the sun’s height. “We’ll be gone a long time, so say farewell to the comforts of your families and warm yurts.”

Otabek, being the most recent one to get married, gets a few sympathetic glances and a clap on the shoulder from his father. And as much as he is loathe to leave his newlywed life, the thought that it _exists_ is good enough. Even so, Yuri reads his face as soon as he returns to the yurt to get a cup of hot tea while he puts his things together.

“So you’re all going.” Eyinzhu doesn’t bother making it a question. Evgeniya is at the hearth, frying little flatbreads over the fire under Eyinzhu’s oversight. Yuri is sitting next to his mother, and his muteness reminds Otabek of the way he used to watch Otabek for what to do when they couldn’t yet understand each other. However, this Yuri’s pouty mouth and furrowed brows are a clear indication of his understanding and disapproval.

“We’re all going,” Otabek affirms, piling his things on the bed. He packs the same things every year, so it requires little thought to put them together now. He glances at Yuri, hoping he could’ve kept the sparkly-eyed and red-cheeked one and played around in the snow with him. But even the pouty one is difficult to leave.

“Do you have time to eat?” Eyinzhu indicates the breakfast in making.

“I do,” Otabek replies, glancing at Yuri again, hoping to somehow appease him. Otabek sits by the hearth and pats the pillow next to his, inviting Yuri. Yuri plonks himself down a little woodenly.

“When and if the snow goes,” Eyinzhu begins while stirring the meat broth on the fire, “I want to go and trade for a stove like theirs.” She indicates Evgeniya. “They retain heat much better than a hearth.”

“Aren’t they heavy?” Otabek asks somewhat absent-mindedly, preoccupied with watching Yuri.

“I don’t intend to carry one with me in the summer,” Eyinzhu replies sharply, placing down bowls to ladle the porridge into. It’s a mix of meat broth, wild grain, and vegetables. Filling, hot, and salty, served with the slightly sweet flatbread and tea.

While the three of them begin eating immediately, Evgeniya bows her head and holds her hands together, mumbling rapidly in her tongue. Yuri looks slightly guilty and falters.

“What is it?” Otabek asks, not liking to see that.

“She’s... thanking god,” Yuri explains.

“Oh, which one?” Otabek questions, earning a look from Yuri.

“The only one,” he replies, then shrugs. “I do not think he exists.”

Otabek, who is fairly certain a number of gods and spirits do exist, is perplexed. He gestures towards the shrine on the northern wall of the yurt. “A god won’t hear those who are alive,” he explains. “We pray to our ancestors who have a tie to the world of gods and the world of people. They act as messengers.”

“Dead people are dead,” Yuri says.

“Yes, they are,” Otabek agrees, which makes Yuri shake his head in confusion. “But they remember being alive.”

“But they are _dead_ ,” Yuri mutters.

“Enough,” Eyinzhu says. Her mood is short like the days in winter. “Eat now.”

They quiet down obediently and eat; Otabek without discrimination, and Yuri by inspecting every bite. Evgeniya eats delicately and slowly, using a spoon instead of the flatbread like Otabek is used to. During the meal, Yuri leans in closer, seemingly having forgiven Otabek, and questions the food.

“What’s this?” Yuri picks a crunchy piece of vegetable onto the point of his knife.

“I think that’s a piece of pickled carrot,” Otabek replies.

“What’s this?” Yuri does the same to another piece.

“That’s a pickled clover root.”

“What’s ‘pickled’?” Yuri asks instead, leaning into Otabek’s side.

“Brining,” Otabek replies, taking Yuri under his arm.

“What’s ‘brining’?” Yuri says sweetly. “Hm?”

“It’s salt in the water. And vinegar and spice for pickling.” Otabek smiles at Yuri’s upturned face and the wrinkle that appears on his brow and nose when Otabek strokes a finger down the slope.

“Oh, I know what pickled is,” Yuri nods. He’s leaning his arm on Otabek’s thigh. “What’s this?” he asks, catching his fingers on the seam of Otabek’s trousers.

“That’s a seam,” Otabek explains, although the position of Yuri’s hand so high up could mean he’s asking about another thing altogether.

“If you’re that desperate for amusement, I have a project for you,” Eyinzhu puts in. This is a surprise because Otabek had forgotten she was there, sitting on the other side of the hearth for their breakfast.

“Thank you, mom,” Otabek says, falling right back into his trap of absent-minded adoration when Yuri holds up a piece of dried apple.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“An apple,” Otabek says. Eyinzhu sighs heavily.

“What was salty in the porridge?” Yuri asks, leaning even further into Otabek’s lap, where Otabek feeds him bits of apple from his bowl.

“That was probably the salt-cured egg,” Otabek supplies. He feels hot from his toes to his ears, but it’s a pleasant heat. It isn’t making him sweaty or uncomfortable or tired, just happy. Every time Yuri holds up something else and asks with a serious face what it is, Otabek feels even happier. And every time Yuri smiles, he feels happy in a different way. It’s ridiculous.

“I wonder if I annoyed my mother-in-law as much as you annoy me right now,” Eyinzhu mutters loudly. The happiness only reaches so far.

“Are you done eating?” Otabek asks Yuri. “We’ll be leaving soon.”

“No, not done,” Yuri declares, sitting up. “You will go if I am done. So I will eat breakfast all day.”

His words overlap with a calling whistle, only marginally muted by the walls of the yurt. Otabek gets up. “I’ll have to go even if you’re not done,” he murmurs. He hasn’t needed his heavy outer coat inside the yurt, so he takes a moment to dress properly.

Eyinzhu is cleaning up after their meal, while Evgeniya holds her hands towards the hearth. She still wears a heavy ring on her right hand, on the finger Yuri had indicated meant a married person. Yuri shoots up from his seat only when Otabek picks up his haversack and hangs his tools from his belt and intercepts Otabek at the door of the yurt.

“No,” Yuri says, holding onto Otabek’s sleeve. “What do I do while you are not here? I don’t want to be separate already.”

There’s no faulting him for that. They’ve barely been married a month, and there’s no guarantee to say when Otabek will be able to come back. “I know,” Otabek pulls Yuri into an embrace. “I don’t want to leave you, but you’re right. Everything _is_ about the horses. They’re our livelihood, so I have to go, but that doesn’t mean I want to be apart either.”

“And there’ll be plenty to do here,” Eyinzhu adds. “You didn’t give me a daughter-in-law, so he’ll have to help with the household tasks.”

Yuri’s body goes stiff, and he muffles a groan into Otabek’s shoulder. Otabek strokes his hair and his back and squeezes him one final time. “Sorry, Yura.”

Yuri says something rude under his breath but squeezes him back, then stands forlornly in the doorway as Otabek treks through the newly forged paths in the snow towards the horse shelter to get Burdock. He gets one last look at Yuri when they lead their horses out of the yurt village, hoping there’ll be less of it on the ground where the steppe winds can blow.

~

“If you’re both men,” Ulyrau says as if that fact is in question. “Can you both marry women as secondary wives?”

Seventeen days of work in the snow and cold have left them all exhausted. The winter pasture for the horses had become snowed-in, and bringing the animals to a second location had taken days of non-stop effort. Two of the horses had been lost, as well as five sheep.

“I haven’t thought about it,” Otabek replies, his words overlaid by Janibek’s snort.

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Janibek mutters, turning to face the other way.

The inside of the travel yurt is stuffy with the presence of so many people, most of them asleep. It’s not comfortable, but it is warm. A warmth that smells like an enclosed space full of men who haven’t washed for a while. The dark is a cacophony of breathing and snoring, and the tossing and turning of bodies.

And Ulyrau’s questioning.

“But could it happen?” he insists in a whisper.

“Who’d want to marry a man who’s already married to another man?” Janibek makes the argument in Otabek’s stead, even though he’d already objected to it.

“Why do women want to marry men who are already married to other women?” Ulyrau continues. Otabek wants to hear the answer too and turns his head slightly towards Janibek in the dark. It’s better than hopelessly thinking of Yuri and waiting to get back to him.

“Because that’s normal!” Janibek hisses. “Men can have as many wives as they can provide for.”

“I’m going to ask dad tomorrow,” Ulyrau replies.

Janibek snorts again, but they both stay quiet afterwards. Otabek still finds it hard to go to sleep, even after a full day’s work in the deep snow with the horses. Extra feed is necessary every day. Although the horses are hardy and used to foraging in the cold, a deep snow cover stops them from doing that and from being able to move around. Melting snow for them to drink is necessary to not have their body temperature drop too much from eating snow or ice.

A healthy horse can survive a fairly long time without food if it has a good amount of body fat already stored. Their horses are well-cared for. The feed is only extra. The more important part is protecting them from the weather and monitoring their dung for signs of too much dryness.

Otabek rubs his eyes, trying to relieve the dryness in them. The combination of the air humidity dropping when the snow stopped falling and the smoke in the poorly ventilated yurt have made his eyes itchy and irritated. He rests his arm across his eyes, images of horses dancing on the inside of his eyelids as he tries to fall asleep.

What a cruel joke his bride of frost has played him. A year apart, a month together. Almost a month apart again. Thinking about the horses is preferable to thinking about Yuri. Thinking about Yuri just leads to longing that makes it harder to fall asleep. And there’s no privacy—or time, or opportunity—to tend to any feelings of longing.

So, horses. Or the riddle of a man marrying a man. _Anything but Yura,_ Otabek pleads himself, turning from side to side. He’d been able to live with it before because he’d had no hope of seeing Yuri ever again. He’d just attempted to treasure the memories. Now it’s painful, incredible reality. Yuri is waiting for him to come back. Playful, beautiful Yuri.

Sleep does come to Otabek, even if it’s only because the work in the harsh conditions has worn out his body. He’s one of the last to wake the following morning when the yurt is already almost empty. He takes his breakfast on the move, chewing through the dense cakes of fat, meat, grain, and berries while hauling feed, dazed by the bright day and his dreams.

“I heard an interesting conversation this morning,” Altynbek tells him. “That son of Otyrau’s has a lot on his mind, and none of it is what’s supposed to be there.”

Otyrau has three sons, all there to help, but Otabek knows which one his father is talking about. He stops to finish the cake, turning away from the sun and the glare of it off the snow. They’ve cleared as much of it as they can, but there seems to be no end to it, and the horses are having to make do with a much smaller pasture than they’re used to. Yuri’s horses are still wearing their colourful blankets, separate from the rest. Introducing them will take a while.

The smaller area brings other problems too, mostly aggression in the animals who are used to much more freedom. The main herd itself is roughly divided in two. The stallions are kept apart from the mares and geldings. Yuri’s horses are a small herd of their own. One stallion, five mares. He’s certain Yuri had planned it so.

“What’s supposed to be there?” Otabek asks, rubbing his eyes again. They itch.

“The betterment of our livelihood,” Altynbek replies. He takes a break too, breathing hard, grimacing as he rubs his lower back. He shades his eyes as the takes in the various groups working around them for the exact reason of betterment. “But instead he was asking if your new wife could marry a woman because he’s a man.”

“Can he?” Otabek asks.

“Well... no,” Altynbek says. “He’s a man, but he married you in the position of a wife. So he has the wife’s rights and responsibilities. That doesn’t include marrying again. Unless you die. Why? Does he want to marry a woman?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Otabek shakes his head. It’s not something they’ve discussed at all. “I was just curious. I think that’s all Ulyrau is too.”

“There’s a lot to be curious about, sure,” Altynbek agrees. “He seems to want to know why everything happens, but not actually do any of it.”

A high-pitched whinny sounds across the cleared space, pausing all of them in their work. The whinny gets echoed by others, and ripples of unease go through the herd. Otabek yanks his head up to check on Yuri’s horses in their own little space, but they’re fine, huddled together while listening to the sounds of unhappiness from the others.

“Back to work,” Altynbek says, reaching over to squeeze Otabek’s arm. “But I think tomorrow some of us can go home. We’ll draw lots and arrange shifts.”

Otabek resigns himself to staying. It’s better than hoping to go. He can’t expect any special treatment even though it’s usually afforded to the newly married, but his case is a little different, and he doesn’t want to make an issue of it within his family and the people he has to work, live, and breathe with daily.

At the drawing of the lots, Otabek has the short length. He has to swallow a disappointed lump in his throat, only proving that he’d had hope despite his earlier resignation. Until Janibek shoves his winning strap of leather at him.

“I’ll stay,” Janibek says. “You got married last.” He doesn’t look Otabek in the eye.

It pauses the preparations for the evening meal in the yurt. They only have a tiny fire for heating up water, but even so, the lack of fuel is becoming a problem. Everything is buried or frozen, including the horse dung, which they would normally dry and use in the fires.

“If you’re sure,” Otabek says gratefully. Nobody wants to touch the reason why Janibek, also fairly recently married, doesn’t want to go back to his wife, but they all know. The family lives very close together, and felted wool walls keep only so many secrets inside them, and thus one person’s unhappiness touches all. Janibek’s marriage is still childless. He wants a second wife.

“I’m sure,” Janibek mutters. “You owe me one.”

“Thank you.” Otabek nods at him in lieu of having no other more substantial way of thanking him right then. They’ve never been very close as brothers and have often been in competition, but it’s still family.

The promise of getting to go back, even if it’s just for a few days at a time, makes sleeping almost impossible. Before Yuri, any situation where the horses needed them, Otabek would’ve stayed. Not only because he hadn’t had a family of his own but also because others did. In the future, he hopes he’ll be able to bring Yuri to the horses instead. His status as a wife shouldn’t interfere with his status as a man, and men should know how to take care of the livestock.

The return trip takes a day and a half because of the snow. In the cold wind, Otabek dreams of spring.

For the first time in his life, when he and the others who’d drawn the lot to return, come to the settlement, he forgoes taking care of Burdock’s comfort before his and rushes to his mother’s yurt. Eyinzhu and Evgeniya are sitting outside, both with a lapful of felt they’re stitching together with bone awls. Most tasks like that are done outside in daylight despite the temperature.

“Mom. Mother,” Otabek greets them, unmounting. “Yura?”

“Welcome back,” Eyinzhu says and points with her chin, and Otabek takes running in the indicated direction. The settlement has been mostly cleared of the snow, leaving piles of it in every corner and built up around the yurts for extra windbreak and insulation. The children are playing on a hill of it, burrowing through and sliding down. On a field of untouched snow, south of the village, the younger women are spreading and dragging the felt walls of the yurts as well as bedding, sitting cushions, and other textiles through the snow to both clean things that can’t be washed and to discourage parasites.

Otabek shades his eyes against the brightness of the snowfield, tracking the familiar figures of his extended family until he finds Yuri’s slender figure, dressed in the slightly shorter overcoat men wear, as opposed to the fuller silhouettes of the women.

“Yura!” Otabek calls out. Warmth overcomes him when Yuri whips around and then forges through the snow, calling out in his own tongue. He leaps at Otabek hard enough to knock them both into the ground where the snow catches them.

“Бека! Бека!” Yuri repeats, pressing his cold nose into Otabek’s similarly cold cheek. Otabek picks out ‘horse’ and ‘snow’ from what he’s saying, but in the end it’s enough to just hear him talk, whatever the language and whatever he’s saying.

“I can stay several days before I have to go back,” Otabek tells him, holding the pointy face between his hands. “And I know, I need a bath.”

“Бath,” Yuri repeats, laughing. He squirms off Otabek and helps him up. He waves at the other women, and some of the wave back with smiles. Some of them are hurrying to meet their men. To Otabek, Yuri’s beaming face is the most beautiful thing.

“What have you been doing? What has my mom made you do?” Otabek asks. They stumble through the snow back towards the yurts. Burdock tosses her head and paws at the snow when they approach, and Otabek stops to attend to her.

“Many things! Fixing! Washing! Cleaning!” Yuri lists on his mittened fingers. “Мама makes pictures with yarn, mother makes patterns with horse hair. Both say their thing is best. They argue. I have to talk for both.”

Burdock’s patience and sweet nature are a blessing Otabek doesn’t deserve. He lapses so many times in unpacking and undressing her, dazedly watching Yuri. He fumbles with the saddle, almost dropping it on his foot, when Yuri takes off his fur hat and shows off the braiding on his hair. The sides aren’t cut short, but braided back to join the bigger braid on top.

“Мама does not want me to cut it. Dilraba-daughter-of-Amai made this,” Yuri explains. “But I will cut it. Just not now.” He’s so serious and captivating that it takes Otabek a while to realise a reply is expected. Yuri’s eyes flick from his mouth to his eyes and back.

“It’s good this way too,” Otabek says. When he has the saddle stored, Yuri crowds him into the corner of the horse shelter and puts his hand through the gap in Otabek’s coat to grab his most intimate bits, although through his trousers. “Yura?”

“I will go make you a bath,” Yuri says. “And then you will tell me what this is.” He squeezes.

“You know what that is.” Otabek refrains from smiling because Yuri is serious. The colour on his cheeks could just be from the cold.

“I know what it is,” Yuri agrees. “But I don’t know the name. I think while you are gone. I don’t know many names for things. The woman who gave me your words didn’t tell me these.” He squeezes again. “And I cannot ask the women here. Only you.”

“I understand.” Yuri’s way of asking may be amusing, but Otabek knows it’s not something to make light of. Yuri is trying very hard to fulfil his many conflicting roles and fit in where he was just recently considered a pest at worst and a spirit at best, leaving his humanity in question with many of Otabek’s family members.

Otabek puts his guilt aside. He’s still responsible for Yuri, maybe even more so than before. “Are you going to bathe with me?” Otabek asks as they come to the yurt. He’ll care for his clothes and tools later. “I’ll tell you all the names you want to know.”

He isn’t sure if Yuri’s yes-noise is in response to his question or an acknowledgement of his promise to name body parts, but it makes no difference because the bathhouse is in great demand with the men who have just returned from the pastures. Otabek’s bath, shared with them, is far less romantic than he’d hoped for upon his return.

The naming of things waits even longer. At the shrine on the north wall of the yurt, Otabek is introduced to Yuri’s father and maternal grandparents in the form of frighteningly lifelike paintings the like of which Otabek has never seen. The idea of portraiture isn’t unfamiliar to him, but it’s not something his people particularly take to, and definitely not in such detail that makes the eyes of the painted people follow him around the yurt.

“They’re a little unnerving, but I don’t think it’s harmful,” Eyinzhu comments when she notices Otabek staring at them. “Well. They’re your ancestors now too.”

“They would have said no to this,” Yuri adds. “But they are dead, so they have no say. Бека.”

Otabek returns to Yuri’s side by the open doorway where the light is best. He has brought out his horse records, but instead of the bloodlines of horses, he shows Otabek a page where he has written out all the marks the text consists of. Each has a large and small version.

“You will take this and learn them,” he declares. “I will tell you what they sound like.”

He’s sitting on his heels, his red coat spread around him. On one side the setting winter sun makes the red colour stand out from the white of the snow. On the other side, the touch of gold from the heart gives his skin a glow and brings out the green of his eyes, which have the same look as his father’s in the painting: straightforward and self-possessed. It isn’t the first time Otabek has a sense of his extraordinary nature, but the realisation of just how much Otabek has still to about from him and his customs is more pronounced than ever.

~

“Finger. Hand. Arm,” Yuri lists, touching Otabek on the named parts. He stops to stroke Otabek’s bare wrist.

“Wrist,” Otabek supplies, and Yuri moves on.

“Shoulder. Back. Neck. Th-” He lifts a pair of questioning eyes at Otabek, thumb resting in the hollow of Otabek’s throat.

“Throat,” Otabek says, and Yuri nods.

“Thr- throat,” he repeats. “Head. Ear. Mouth. Hm?” He replaces his hand with his lips, touching them to Otabek’s.

“Lips,” Otabek murmurs. “Tongue.” He licks at Yuri’s lower lip, cupping Yuri’s face between his hands to keep him still, then tilts his head and bites very gently on the lobe of Yuri’s ear. “Teeth,” he whispers. Yuri makes a sound like a little lynx being tickled, and Otabek pulls him into his lap, entirely forgetting the names of all things.

**Author's Note:**

> I do have an actual sequel planned too. I should probably get on that.


End file.
